Lure O' War (The Old Realms)

Sir Alan Kirk,

Also known as,

'I ereg arn Sinya Nore Rokae O' Goras'*

or simply 'Ereg Arn'

The Monarch's Envoy

Part II

-Just a small token-

*Court Imperial Tongue of the Zilan race, translated verbatim 'the first noble human knight of Goras', but here the number/word Ereg (first) is used as an adjective to denote something unique in Imperial history next to the wide-ranging term 'Arn' that means Royal/ of noble cause, and at the same time offer a subtle social commentary that denotes the well-documented Zilan prejudice against other races. So the true meaning of the phrase in the allegorical Zilan language becomes more poignant and means 'The only noble human knight of Goras' or simply the 'Only Noble'. A tremendous honor for the Raoz native.

-

Summer of 189 NC,

The Siege of Rida,

Day twelfth, noon (final day)

The Eastwatch Forest's westernmost edges & Merchant Path

2nd minor Battle of the Refugees

Alan stopped the charging mail-clad Khanate lancer with a fierce strike above the right hip, his chipped sword's blade splintering in three unequal pieces on contact and the shattered mail rings rattling as they rained against his damaged shield. The next moment the freed from his rider horse thundered past him churning up a ton of fine dust that covered everything.

The rattled corporal stumbled sideways, used the shield as lever to stop himself from falling down and when he stood upright again, the last of the enemy riders that had caught them pulled at the reins of his mount, considered for a brief moment the half-hidden in the dust Alan with thoughtful penciled eyes, then turned the horse around and galloped away.

"God damnit Kirk," the injured Sergeant Ottis cursed —they were both employed in the city guards— limping near him out of the haze. "You scared the living daylights out of him!"

"My blade broke, but he couldn't see it," Alan rustled, his dry mouth filled with sand and white as the devil. "The dust clouds saved us. Luthos even."

"Fuck Luthos. He's a prick. Lord Reeves did most of the saving," Ottis grunted and grabbed his shoulder. "Stayed back in there with Marcus and the machines. Else, we would all be caught now and dragged through Rida's streets by our intestines. Nigh heroic shite, I've ever seen in my life!"

"Aye," Alan agreed with a tired nod and hearing loud calls from the rear of their lines, he grimaced.

"Martel has everyone ready to march down the road," the older sergeant explained. "The dwarf is in charge he said."

"The dwarf?" Alan queried knitting his brows. "Shouldn't we wait for Reeves?"

"Alan, you misjudged the whole heroic speech. I was making a point corporal, lest the good lord's efforts are in vain. Those Reeves wanted saved are either aboard his ship, like the girls and that boy, or are with us. All them civilians… his subjects, aye, are all that mattered to him and this chivalry my friend, you won't see from another noble," Ottis said and tapped him once to get him going. "Come on. We must take advantage of the coming night and save as many of them as it is possible. We ought the young lord as much."

"How come Rollon stayed with us? It's too altruistic for him."

Martel had served in Rida's guard, but had been imprisoned for a couple of months, before the siege forced Duke Winfield to pardon everyone able to fight.

"White and Willian made it out of the bridge's barricade, sort of befriended that dwarf. He loves machinery it seems as much as both Riks' do. Long story short, they came to an arrangement and they talked Rollon into joining," the sergeant explained.

"Talked him into joining what?" Alan rustled as they approached the large group of armed civilians and the former City Guard's officer. Ottis grimaced and puffed out, using his free hand to stabilize the bandaged one. "Sergeant?"

"We're heading south, down the Merchant Path," Ottis replied hoarsely, his face as white from the powdery sand as Alan's. "Only free city on that coast and 'free' I use loosely here, is Eikenport. It's where the ship is going and where Reeves with Marcus might be heading," the sergeant added with a grimace of pain. "If he makes it and it's a very big if this. Still, there might be need in the realm's god darn edge for former soldiers, Alan."

"Mercenary work?" Alan grunted. "We haven't even escaped yet."

"Desperate and defeated men need something to think about. Something to look forward to. Keeps them moving, keeps them focused. I'd have asked you also, but I know you won't fight for coin. The Guard wasn't a road to a knighthood for you my friend in the end. I'm sorry. So come nightfall, you are dismissed corporal Kirk. You are free to try again."

"Only Lord Reeves can give such an order sergeant."

"If he makes it, but you'll only know whether he does or not in Eikenport. A world away Alan. Sir Robert is still out there, might as well try to join him. He's the heir to Badum."

Alan stared at his broken sword, then at the rows of refugees heading down Merchant's Path, and let out a deep sigh. "I'll come along," he rustled unwilling to admit defeat or write off the young Lord who had led such a spirited defense against impossible odds. "I'll help you keep them alive, Ottis. Even if the worst comes to pass, they are all that's left of the duchy and Lord Reeves' final wishes."

The Rida sergeant stood back and then responded with a pleased nod.

"Aye, indeed they are. And our good ole Lord Reeves would appreciate the gesture Alan, even if he's looking down on us from the heavens," Ottis senior had told him.

And this common turn of phrase by the Raoz Officer who was to be killed later in Eikenport defending a Queen's honor, had turned out to be extremely accurate in a sense, because the realm was weird like that and extremely capricious.

First Month of winter, 195 NC.

The last month of the year.

Tenebrous Castle (Morn Taras) east-facing gates, Principality of Goras, Wetull.

The downpour was constant the last couple of days. While the rain falling was vapory and light on one's skin and armour, everything got soaked thoroughly. It made stuff grow very fast, even during the winter. The cactus-like pitaya tree infestation —for example— had dominated this part of the forest, the trees fiercely pink, thorny fruits with the weird white flesh and the black kernels dotting their insides, also called 'dragon fruit pears', because the wyverns loved eating them.

So did the surviving locals, the returning from the nearby wilderness Zilan, and those refugees from Raoz who had followed after Lord Reeves out of Eikenport —where a lot of them had stayed with Captain Ottis, the two Ricards, Rollon Martell and the rest of the Gallant Dogs— had finally settled in Taras. Every single one of these humans Alan had helped survive the deserts of Eplas, the Royal Knight knew by now. Some were even his friends despite the difference in station. Like Osbert Nash, the Rida stonemason, who had built a new workshop with a Zilan partner in Taras. Hero Isatis, the merchant from Altarin, who now worked a small trade caravan between the distant Zilan cities with the help of his family and two of his old Rida neighbors. Many others, with almost as many souls not making it, either lost in the long journey or during the first difficult years in Goras.

Sergeant (of Taras' City Guard) Mitch Standon, one of Captain Esau Fane's men —the latter a blacksmith's apprentice turned soldier— saluted the mask-wearing Rokae, before halting with a gasp of surprise, recognizing the human behind the sober, polished-silver and face-shaped visor.

"Sir Kirk," Mitch said and smiled, showcasing a fine silver bridge in his mouth. Mitch had been a harbor worker in Rida, but had befriended Captain Fane during the siege, which later helped him rise in the Taras' Guard ranks, especially after the latter's losses during Primo D'Orsi's failed expedition. Taras' Guard was controlled by Lord Fikumin. "We'll be having a gathering for the new year," Mitch continued. "You are invited, sir."

"I don't think I would make it this time, Mitch," Alan replied and glanced beyond Morn Taras' east portcullis facing the Eternal Springs and the forest. "The road to the King's Forest is flooded, so inform your people. Anyone inside the yard's garden at this time?"

Mitch Standon had exited the castle's grounds not from the direction of the front gates, which was peculiar.

"Hah, only the weird Cofol priestess," Mitch replied and grimaced at the slip up as he would have preferred not to comment on the court's affairs afore leaving said court's premises. Alan gave him a reassuring stare and the man continued. "The King ordered a lot of wagons and they blocked the main gates for everyone. You probably know more of this than me."

Alan didn't know, but was certain news waited for him inside the palace walls. The Knight dismissed the satchel-carrying Sergeant Mitch Standon —the officer from Raoz was tasked with delivering the official daily correspondence from Lord Shield to Morn Taras. With their conversation over, Alan tugged his horse's reins and guided the animal onto the tight cobblestone path leading inside the palace.

The Cofol Priestess Akira stood before one of the twelve flower beds the late Sen-Iv Sopat had grown out of the previously untamed soil and stared thoughtfully at the barren stems on the well-maintained plants. Hearing the knight's spurs and the horse's hooves navigating the narrow cobblestone path between the flower beds, the priestess turned her painted in gold and black face towards the approaching Alan.

Akira's hair were split elaborately, the back portion caught in a top bun, adorned with several long metal hairpins and two long side locks falling over each shoulder of her kimono. The latter garb and proud -almost regal- stance of the female reminded Alan of the late Goras Queen. The Knight stopped dead in his tracks forcing the horse to halt right behind him with a snort, as Sen's loss still haunted him and Akira sensing something was amiss looked in his masked face.

"It's called the Black Bat flower," Akira said in her almost excellent Imperial and Alan stood back unsure on how to answer her. The priestess continued after a brief pause. "All other flowers around it are pretty but not this one. It's an apocryphal medicinal plant at its core, especially the roots. The broth it creates helps cure unnatural growths within one's body, or tumors."

"She worked in the garden until her last day," Alan informed her and Akira nodded. "We thought it was a way for her to forget about the pain, so no one tried to stop her."

"The diligent person embraces pain. Doesn't hide from it, but uses agony's throes to fuel her resolve and turn despair into a craving to fight all misery to the last drop of her strength. Fight the illness, or look for the elusive cure for as long as she can," Akira added and inhaled sharply when Alan removed his helm. "Apologies, I thought I was addressing a Zilan."

"I speak Imperial," Alan told her. "I'm Sir Alan Kirk. The King's adjutant."

"Of course," Akira replied recovering her wits fast. "It makes sense. By the god's grace, this is Akira O' Magor."

I know.

"So, you teach the princess herbalism?" He asked to break the awkward moment that fell between them.

"Ancient Cofol. It's very close to your… Imperial," Akira replied.

"The princess has plenty of language teachers," Alan noted and cursed himself for being so intrusive with the foreign woman. Akira is from Tull Cautara-Magor, Glenavon had told him. Her ancestors that is. All Cofols are from this mysterious place west of Eplas, but her clan is the only one still maintaining the memories. While a tad backwards they are a serious bunch of people, very knowledgeable and extremely decent. While we have plenty of serious dudes and mademoiselles about, some even knowledgeable, we are far from decent with few exceptions, the King had added when Alan tried to protest. So quite above all of us in that department. "Perhaps a different lesson would have been preferable," Alan offered with a grimace.

"Inis-Mir wants to learn what her mother knew," Akira replied calmly. "Until she trusts this lowly tutor more, a different lesson won't allow me time with her. The princess is elusive, very clever and prone to indulgences. Believes she is the female embodiment of the Wyvern God. So she secretly perceives all other lifeforms beneath her. Life shall teach her otherwise in time, but it's a dangerous trait to possess so young."

Eh, all noble children are difficult, he thought.

"She has a wyvern pet," Alan noted with a smile and Akira agreed with a head nod. "To hatch the egg, the princess burned her hands to the bone holding it. The scars might never leave her," the knight added in a more serious tone. "So, perhaps some of it is justified, given that she is Hardir O' Fardor's spawn."

"Does she possess magic?"

The Zilan believed many things about her and it was difficult to argue there was no divinity involved considering her blood.

"I don't know, but there is magic around her aplenty, Akira."

"I'll take your words into consideration. Gratitude for the advice, good knight," Akira thanked him earnestly. "What troubles, Alan of Goras?" She asked perceptively.

"Just a premonition," Alan replied with a sigh. "I need to take the horse to the stables and then meet with the King."

"I can take the horse there, and free you the time," Akira offered and Alan went to refuse, but the priestess stopped him with a deep bow. "It's on my way."

Alan crooked his mouth surprised. "Is this some kind of strange tradition? A ritualistic tit-for-tat?" He queried jokingly forgoing decorum and Akira's face flushed a deep red even under all the paint.

"Not a trade alas, but the God's command," the priestess replied and the dark clouds parted right over her head seemingly. A single golden ray of sunlight escaped them and shone on this narrow part of the palace's garden. The moment the sun touched the weathered soaked stems, some of them stirred as if coming alive and slowly turned to face the half-hidden golden disk on the mauve sky.

Glenavon Reeves, the second of his name, true Lord of Altarin and the last knight of Raoz christened by the late Duke Winfield, afore all other titles he had managed to accumulate in less than a decade —and now looking much older than his twenty-five winters— greeted Alan Kirk with the usual query of the past couple of months.

"Is he dead?"

"Not yet, milord. He appears to be healing slowly," Alan replied, keeping his helm under the armpit inside the relatively dark hall.

"How is this possible?" The Monarch of Wetull asked and crooked his mouth. "Slaves eat better shit than what we feed that son of a bitch. Is the cell kept illuminated at all times by the way?"

"It is, your grace."

"Good. This is a problem of course, I don't know how to solve," Glenavon admitted and puffed out audibly. "Well, fuck."

"Why not execute the murderer?" Alan offered. "You'll risk displeasing the Rokae."

"I thought about it. But she might find out. Somehow pull it out of me, because she can apparently do that as I recently discovered. So there's that," the troubled King said. "It's a very tricky situation. Volatile at this junction, so extra care must be put into keeping the matter a secret. At least afore I test a couple of things."

"Cutting ties with her is the easiest way to ensure secrecy," Alan offered.

Glenavon stared at him as if in serious discomfort. "What she has, I can't find anywhere else," the king finally said.

"My Lord, you can have any woman," Alan protested mildly and paused to take a deep breath. "If it's her fabled feminine splendor you wish to savor, then many Zilan lasses are up there with her, in my opinion. Even if I'm wrong in this, they carry none of the baggage. And she has, your grace, many of the latter. Now, if it's a matter of the heart, perhaps the truth is the best remedy."

Glenavon's face got distorted by a severe spasm and the king retreated to the steps of his throne. He collapsed on them and stared at the distant painted reliefs on the hall's walls. "Some truths are better left unsaid," he finally murmured with another grimace. "Else all gained progress might collapse."

"It shouldn't matter," Alan noted, but avoided to pressure the King more on the matter. Glenavon sighed, then sobered up and stared in Alan's pale face.

"How old are you Alan?" He asked him.

"Twenty and seven this summer, your grace."

"I look older than you."

"The King carries the weight of a whole kingdom on his shoulders," Alan replied.

"He does. Damn it, ah, how did it come to this, I wonder? A fucking bag of coins," Glenavon wondered aloud, but Alan couldn't understand what he was referring to. "I decided to send Berthas to Jelin."

Hmm.

"What did Bert Ottis say?" Alan asked, as he still hadn't had the opportunity to speak with Captain Ottis kin.

"Everything is under control," Glenavon replied and made a gesture with his hand. "Measures are underway to secure the prisoners and everyone is working with that in mind."

"Difficult to fathom with the Queen dealing with a siege and so little progress."

"True. Actually it's so fucking unbelievable, even Whisper Jinx doesn't believe it and she tends to believe everything the mercenaries say because survivor's guilt clouds her judgement. She's sensitive like that, aye. They just carved a huge hole in the treasury to replenish lost equipment. When I decided to fund Whisper's outfit I had a more modest amount of men and materiel in mind."

"Isn't Elsanne paying their wages?"

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

"Well, they don't use their wages to plug their losses," the King paused seeing Alan's serious face and stood up from the steps to approach him. "Rik White was killed," he told him. "Confirmation came from Martell, after I asked for a more detailed tally."

Alan nodded soberly.

"Who else?"

"I fear about Liko. Crafton was a bastard, but he wasn't that bad all things considered, and took care of the boy all his life, as best as he knew, I reckon. Liko is too-eager sometimes and he might have gotten himself in trouble," a distressed Glenavon pointed at a map of the two continents probably left on a stand from a previous meeting, taking a moment to collect himself before continuing. "They'll head for the port of Colle, land there incognito and then travel straight up the 3Roads towards the capital. Of course, they'll stick out alike a sore thumb so they'll need someone to keep them out of trouble."

"That's sound thinking sire."

"Yeah? I thought of it immediately," the King agreed touting his own horn.

"Why send a mage, Milord?" the used in Glenavon's minor flaws Alan asked with the hint of a smile on his lips and looked at the map.

"I can't send an army without raising a ton of eyebrows and we have no ships available to risk a confrontation with the Khan's navy."

"But you do wish Berthas to help the Queen?"

"Unofficially. If it comes to that. He can be a big asset, but Berthas is also a little brutal… all witches are, it seems. Remember Mussel and Whisper's villa. It's not why he's going there, is what I'm saying, just something to have at your disposal, if shit hits the fan as shite tends to oft do. Heard that? Yeah. That was that fool Luthos cackling hidden somewhere," Glenavon added superstitiously and stared about them inside the empty hall with narrowed eyes. There was a flash of madness in the king's eyes, Alan hadn't noticed before, and a bit of fear or something akin to it. Alan also now knew who the King was going to task with handling the whole affair. "The first task is to find out what is the darn truth and inform me. Then decide how to remedy the situation. I need a little bit of everything Alan. Subtlety, diplomacy, espionage and my voice clearly heard inside the Issir halls of power. Any Imperial citizen you come upon loitering about the capital's premises, you'll press into service to help you. It might not be needed. For crying out loud, these are fellow humans you'll deal with, when we had to reason with the batshit crazies over here, and we shall find common ground with them!"

Glenavon had turned to stare at him intently.

Alan gulped down nervously. "You wish me to travel to Jelin?"

"Speak with Martel. You know the gold-digging troglodyte better than anyone else left breathing other than Whisper and ye can't have the Gish. Anyways, see to dig out of him what you can. Indulge Elsanne, the other lords. These are cultured people, surely, and she loves her knights in shining armor. So give the panoply a good ole polish, yes? Bring that good sword, every little bit counts for something."

"Milord. I'm not a diplomat," Alan grunted and the King stood back unwilling to discuss it any further, though he added just to ease the knight's worries.

"You're this King's god darn Adjutant. I trust you fully, my friend. Yield the power of this throne and bring our people home."

-

Six days later.

Narrow Gulf's turn to Wyvern's Mouth Channel towards Upper Talon and the Scalding Sea. Wetull's Sinya Goras Port labyrinth exit. Aboard the SETC merchant cargo ship Almae Rauca (Blessed Devil). A large Barque under the flag of the neutral city of Eikenport.

Elmaer, the SETC marine, offered the drenched in brines Alan a towel to wipe his face and garbs the moment he entered the narrow cabin. The knight accepted the linen towel, used the soft garb to remove the worst of it, and then tossed the towel on the wall-bolted table. Without a word he sat down on the narrow bench. Elmaer returned his sword in its scabbard and Alan left it next to his masked helm on the upper bunk bed. Fred Garner, his squire, was sound asleep in the lower one. Fred was the last of the Garners, an old family loosely associated with the Winfield of Rida, the latter house extinct of male members now. Which gave Fred Garner a very weak claim to the Duchy, now held by Victor Reeves, although the Reeves' family were much closer to the Winfield through marriage.

The Zilan Rokae wouldn't take a squire, but the Raoz community living in Goras had petitioned Alan Kirk to take in the boy as he was still a human knight and Alan had brought the matter to the King, who allowed it without a second thought, even after listening to Sir Delmuth's long tirade about why he shouldn't.

It was one of the many reasons the human refugees loved the Monarch and had stayed despite the native Zilan bouts of borderline hostility at times.

"An Angrein O' Mecatan blade. Not easy to make," the dressed in plain clothes Elmaer, SETC's liaison on the ship was also undercover, pointed out. "What's its name?"

'You need a better sword, friend,' Glenavon had insisted, because the King could be equally persuasive and considerate. 'God damnit man, I'll pay for it!'

"Hubris," Alan replied and run his fingers over the modest leather-bound streel handle with the engraved pommel.

"What does it do?"

"It's quite sharp, nothing else," Alan retorted and eyed the angular face of the Zilan. "I just wanted a functioning in all conditions sword made, and Angrein respected that. So no fancy stuff, hence the tongue-in-cheek name."

Elmaer nodded and then they both moved from side to side as the waves attacked their ship on its turn. For several moments, the cabin creaked and the angry sea could be heard gnawing at the outside of their sturdy hull.

"The fleet has gathered at Turtle Isle," Elmaer informed him. "Most of the marines are headed there. Lots of serious people. Ever been that far east, Sir Kirk?"

"Never been to Jelin at all," Alan replied.

"Imagine that. Well, I have. There are places to see," Elmaer said and shook his skin-shorn head. One of the Zilan's ears turned to the outer wall, listening to the sea and the other inwards, as if he tried to discern the noises coming from the other cabins. Which apparently he was successful at. "They are at it again."

Berthas and Keya was his meaning.

"Let him sleep the bad seas off," Alan told the Zilan and got up to go visit his two associates in this 'diplomatic' mission. "If he wakes up and starts puking, get him to the deck, but keep him tied up or otherwise secured. Fred's legs don't work on a ship at all."

"I saw you! The back and forth! You think me blind?" An angry Keya snapped at the sitting with his head between his legs Berthas, facing a steaming bowl and having a towel placed over his fading-blue thinning hair to keep the vapors from escaping.

"Excuse me for standing awed before the greatest living witch of our era," the young Zilan mage —despite his ancient looks— protested with a hoarse voice.

"How is she the greatest?" Keya argued puffing out. "Left the kingdom not much older than you and nobody heard from her since then!"

"You are mistaken," Berthas countered. "The Moon's daughter returned during Baltoris' time to offer her assistance, but even she hadn't, her lineage alone would have been enough. Sintoriela's kin has firsthand knowledge of the arcane realm, which we're still blindly trying to figure out!" The last part was interrupted by a bad coughing fit, as the mage was suffering from a 'non-spreading' virus. Berthas was unwilling to disclose how he had gotten sick, but assured everyone that he'll be 'as good as new very soon'.

Since the crew of Blessed Devil didn't believe him, the mage had been confined to the cramped cabin for the whole journey, or as the Zilan captain Mekelos had noted wryly 'until this unlikely miracle comes to be.'

"What assistance?" Keya hissed not too-convinced, just as Alan slammed the door of the cabin behind him after entering their quarters.

"She made a pendant that can translate all languages," Berthas retorted, raising his red and sweaty face under the towel to stare at the frowned knight.

"Bah! There is no such thing!" Keya retorted and Alan cut in to put an end to their argument.

"There is. It's a dagger Hardir O' Fardor carries," the knight told the two spell casters. "Is this going to be a problem?"

"What?" Berthas croaked, a strong scent of eucalyptus reaching Alan's nostrils carried by the vapors emanating from the open bowl. "We know what to do."

"Indeed and you'll do nothing," Alan stopped him. "I'll do the talking henceforth. No more bickering by you two and see to keep a low profile. When we reach the Queen, you won't say a word. You won't answer any questions, even if they appear innocent. First we speak with Rollon Martell and then we'll know how to proceed."

"I wasn't going to open up to an Issir Queen," Berthas grunted a little affronted. "A lot of folk don't like what is happening, Sir Alan. Especially those living in Goras during Reinut's raid."

"The King has no problem with her and there is no other road to follow," Alan warned the Zilan, who shook his head, then lowered it over the bowl again.

"Worry not about the Zilan, Sir Alan," the mage's muffled voice was heard. "But whether the King's cultured Jelin humans harbor similar feelings. After all, it was them that were the aggressors."

And while Berthas' words were subject to heavy debate perhaps, there was plenty of truth in them.

-

Two weeks later,

Port of Colle, Kingdom of Kaltha.

The continent of Jelin,

3rd of Imperial moon Enna (Lorian month Primus, Issir 2nd Month of Winter)

Year 196 of the New Calendar.

Elmaer, his face hidden under a hood, made a hand signal he had secured their freshly bought animals and Alan answered him with a curt nod afore stepping on the street of the ravaged city. Over two-thirds of Colle had been leveled and despite visible efforts at repairing the port, the city was in a pitiful condition to face the heavy winter. Tents housed twice the number of people they could accommodate, with many sleeping in the muddy streets or amidst the ruins, and a loaf of stale bread cost as much as a fine silver pendant. Meat was scarcer to find than a purse full of gold Eagles. The army supply agents and merchants were funneling all available supplies to the front, which left the wretched city population starving.

"Sweet Goddess, what happened here?" Keya wondered shivering under her hooded navy coat, and Berthas who still carried whatever plagued him during their journey grunted, pursing his mouth comically. At times the young mage looked his age, but only barely.

"Earthquake or magic did a number on them," the mage murmured. "I must say the first impression of Jelin is pretty poor."

"No magic, just war. War is as destructive as anything else," Alan informed them, his eyes on the passersby. "We secured two mules with supplies, but there's a famine afflicting the land and the merchant warned us we might get ambushed en route to the capital, if word gets out we are loaded. Assume it shall."

"Do we have to take Elmaer with us?" Berthas probed. "Anyone trying anything funny would be in for a nasty surprise."

Even if nothing else was true about him, it was well-known that Berthas was overconfident.

"I need someone who knows how to use a sword," Alan retorted. "We are not here to blast people about."

"We'll see about that," Berthas murmured and Keya was heard from further down the street.

"Um. There's a terrible stench in the air," remarked the Zilan female, wrinkling her nose and then sniffed at a miserable laborer pushing a coal-laden cart towards the docks. The Issir flinched and veered away to dodge the bothersome Zilan gaping his way, nearly emptying his cargo in the bustling street. Alan signaled for Berthas to rein in his pupil and then pivoted in order to make his way towards Fred Garner and Elmaer, who had already mounted on their horses.

The Zilan marine had been attached to their entourage, with the SETC captain Mekelos offering a larger armed escort Alan declined. Too-many Zilan in their group would have surely brought even more unwanted attention.

"There's a caravan leaving," Elmaer informed Alan as the latter mounted his brown horse. "Best we follow after them. Add their guards to our own defense."

"Aye," Alan agreed. "Good call, Elmaer."

-

Two days later

Claus Sondergaard was a mid-aged Issir merchant and caravan owner operating out of Castalor. When his caravan guards informed him about the small group following their wagon column, he sent Thijs —his older son— to invite them to join the leading carriages and share a dinner after the last stop of the day.

Alan went by himself, leaving Fred behind to deal with any nosy caravan workers, not trusting the Zilan to be diplomatic. Claus greeted him warmly, especially after he learned Alan hailed from Rida and the Duchy of Raoz.

"Did the trip back in 182," Claus Sondergaard reminisced. "A grand city, such a fine harbor and easy to navigate river," the merchant added. "I heard the Khanate rebuilt most of the infrastructure, but it might be a while for the trade routes to open up again."

"If ever," Alan commented tasting the warmed up whiskey Claus had offered him after the decent meal. Two large venison cuts, crispy bread and fried caramelized onions.

"Heh, I give it not even a year after hostilities end," Claus argued, a shrewd smile on his lips. "Trade would resume anew as if nothing ever happened. Colle is still half-destroyed but the roads can't sustain the amount of goods being transported."

"The city is starving," Alan noted with a grimace.

"That's Sigurd Bach's problem. He is short of coin and doesn't have the Queen's favor anymore," Claus retorted. "Van Oord is helping him, but they can only pay for those in the rebuilding crews. It's a subtle way to force able-bodied men and their families to move to Deadmen's Watch, which also needs major repairs. These folk usually agree to work for pennies."

"It's a callous approach," Alan said.

"War time mister Kirk," Claus replied finishing his glass of whiskey and pouring himself another one. "Forces us all to make sacrifices. Of course we offer work and help where we can."

Alan seriously doubted this was an honest reply.

"I counted ten guards at least. You pay them well?" He asked.

They were sitting behind a wagon shaded under a leather awning, as it had started snowing. The sweltering coals in the bronze brazier warming them up. Claus pursed his mouth and placed the short glass on the wooden table in front of him before answering in a composed manner.

"I pay them. Have to turn people down all the time."

"Puts things in perspective, I guess," Alan noted sarcastically, but Claus brushed the matter off with a shrug and changed the topic.

"Um, this would be another cold night. A bad winter this shapes up to be, makes animals hungry and they eat more," the merchant continued with a deep frown. "It brings the costs up for each journey."

"You are working this route for long?" The grimacing Alan asked, deciding to ask something neutral and wrap it up, as he was on the verge of cursing out his host, or straight up punching him in the face.

"Six months, aye." Claus Sondergaard replied oblivious to his guest's frustration or not bothered. "But each trip is more expensive and perilous." He stared in Alan's sober face with a smirk. "Large groups are safer, mister Kirk. I'm doing you lads a favor."

And you get to increase your armed manpower for no cost at all, Alan thought but nodded civilly.

"This fire is producing more smoke than warmth," Fred Garner told him, when he returned near their animals. The campsite near the end of the stationary wagons in the open field by the seeped in mire road. It was snowing properly now and the tree branches were heavy, the lights produced by the caravan barely penetrating the misty surroundings. North Greenforest dominated both sides of the busy road coming from Colle towards Uxrid River and the Issir capital, but the fact that so many animals and wagons used it, had turned the road difficult to travel.

Berthas had fashioned a small fireball and had it levitate between him and the shivering Keya, both Zilan heavily affected by the cold. Elmaer, also wrapped in his heavy coat, was dealing with the weather better.

"Put that thing out," Alan ordered the mage and found a wet log to sit on. "Did you feed the horses?"

"The horses can feed themselves. No one is out spying on us, Kirk." Berthas protested.

"I'm not going to risk it," Alan grunted with a glare. "Do what you're told."

"Eh," the Zilan puffed out and crashed the ball of fire in his hand, which brought a groan of protest out of his former pupil and current partner.

"This isn't Scaldingport," Alan warned them both. "Elmaer has been to the city and he'll tell you that even there Zilan must be careful, as the locals are distrustful even hostile at times. Now, go feed the horses and take Keya with you to warm herself through honest work."

"Abarat has excellent weather all year," Elmaer said after the two sullen spell-casters had walked away. "This is way too north for both of them."

"There is a lot more north further up ahead," Alan retorted and then sighed while rubbing his hands together to produce some warmth. "I don't like the vibes I'm getting from the locals and I still haven't told them who we are really serving."

"How where our folk when you reached Goras proper? Distrustful or hostile?" Elmaer asked while stretching his legs nearer to their struggling fire.

"More like outright violent. The first group we met were a bunch of crazy cultists that worshipped a Hydra. They sacrificed and then feasted on people. It took me a while to wrap my mind around that," Alan replied and then shook his head. "I get what you're saying. People here are stressed and in survival mode."

"Split in different camps as well," Elmaer noted and Alan realized he meant factions. The Zilan had gotten a thin pipe out of a pocket and lit it with a lightstone. Another artifact that could give them away, although SETC had reported the black market traders already circulated the expensive rocks to the upper echelons of human society in several of the bigger ports.

"There's a succession civil war going on so it's normal," Alan replied and watched their piled bags thinking of getting himself a blanket.

"Factions within the Queen's subjects."

Ah.

"You learned all this just eavesdropping to people?" Alan asked. "That's troublesome."

"Not really," Elmaer replied smoking an aromatic blend of tobacco. "We've got factions in Wetull too, Sir Alan."

"You talk about the Council?" The knight queried furrowing his brows.

"It's not my place to say more, but helping the Issirs isn't exactly popular," Elmaer replied puffing smoke out in neat circles that danced around the falling snowflakes.

"Antagonizing everyone is far from a winning strategy," Alan argued.

"Hardir won't find any loyal allies within the human lords," Elmaer said and put out his pipe. "The moment their wars end, they'll gang up and turn against him. Mayhap it'll happen sooner than that."

"Is this what sailors discuss in their spare time?" Alan grunted, as he never enjoyed the Zilan propensity and belief they could predict the future. Because history had proved they just couldn't.

"Nah," Elmaer replied and closed his eyes to rest, unbothered by the falling snow. "The Company's strategists."

"I'll take first watch," Fred told him after about ten minutes and with the Zilan marine soundly asleep wrapped in his thick cloak.

"Um," Alan mumbled and stared at his squire. Fred would turn twenty in the summer, but still had a youthful face now covered in his first blond beard. "Ask the caravan patrol for their passwords and keep the fire going for as long as it is possible."

"The snow will soon put it out, Sir Alan," Fred argued.

"I know, but it will keep you busy. Don't let Berthas light it up again," Alan counseled him and planted both legs down to get up. "I'll try to rest for a bit near the saddles."

Alan woke up numb and covered in a thin layer of melting snow sometime later. The warmth from the nearby horses' bodies lessened the cold night somewhat and at some point, it had stopped snowing. His mount neighed and shook its wet mane, a fine spray of water landing with a rattle on the ground.

White patches within the black mud and the dead grass. Dark clouds overheard, painted mauve and blue by the unseen twin moons. The night eerie, although not quiet. Laden wagons loose parts creaked in the soft breeze and canvas flapped at regular intervals, whilst the many animals snorted as frequently, even with most people asleep inside their wagons.

He could see the two sorcerers cuddled together by the extinguished fire and Fred half-dosed off near them. Alan glanced towards Elmaer and noticed the Zilan's eyes glowing in the dark. The Zilan marine pointed with his hand towards the edge of the misty woods and whispered barely moving his lips.

"We've got company."

Alan slowly stood up from the saddle he had used to rest his back. His nervous gaze attempted to penetrate their surroundings. He didn't have to. Not twenty meters away and near the last of the parked wagons —they had camped close but separately at the end of Claus' columns— Alan spotted several sinister figures standing. The caravan was spread out for almost a hundred meters in two rows of wagons standing four meters apart and not in a circle as was the Eplas way, not out of capriciousness but because they wanted to get going early the next morning. The latter quite important as they didn't want another caravan to take the road first and leave them to follow after it on a freshly ruined path, without the chance to move up ahead of it.

He noticed the glint of metal from a shield reflecting the light from the carriage lamps, and heard a blade's soft clang on a chainmail by accident. It wasn't much easier to walk on the uneven field by the main road, especially in the dark, not without making any strange noise and this was perhaps what had woken him up.

Alan stooped to pick up his large pointed helm and then put it on his head. He unsheathed his sword next, a typical human longsword unless one looked more-closely, and untied his heavy cloak's front fastenings to let it drop on the ground, thus revealing the engraved armour he wore underneath it. Without hurrying the knight lowered his shaped into a sober face visor mask until it clicked into place. Not far from him, Elmaer stood up unhurriedly as well, armed with a long-shafted axe.

"Wake Berthas," Alan told the alert Zilan Marine and strolled towards the nearest group of their uninvited late night guests, tapping Fred Garner on the shoulder once in order to wake him up as he walked past him.

Claus Sondergaard and Thijs believed they had sufficient hired guards to safeguard their goods, and perhaps that was the case on their last trip, but this time it was different. The knight swiftly understood that their escort was simply not up to the challenge, as it lacked both in sheer numbers and in weapons.

"Hey," one of the unknown Issir warriors grunted noticing the masked Rokae approach. Alan's Zilan Rokae armour was built around the typical light-weight, tightly-fitted steel cuirass (fastened at the front and back, in dark-blue with gilded upper chest area colors) with the three v-shaped ridges down the chest area, a riveted to the shoulder pads pauldron, and a hardened-leather fauld at his waist, where the steel tasset was secured to protect a big part of his hips and sides. A pair of steel vambraces protected his forearms, along a pair of greaves typically worn over his boots, but the latter piece of armour and his gauntlets Alan had left inside the saddlebags. "Who in Luthos arsehole is this carnival freak?"

Two more of the night intruders standing nearby who heard his stunned query turned around as well —they had attempted to circle the caravan's vehicles— and the breathing through the slits of the cold mask Alan noticed that all three of them had a fiercely red sash around their waists.

He also realized that if they had penetrated so close to the wagons without the alarm been raised, the night patrol was already dead.

"All six Hells! Is that a damn knight emerging from the shadows?" One of them exclaimed, now seeing the armoured Rokae approaching them, while the third member of their group bellowed, his voice laced with preternatural dread.

"THE FUCKING SWORD," the panicky Issir warrior said and his voice alerted another group of about twenty well-armed ambushers that had come out of the woods. "IT'S GLOWING!"

'Just a small token for Ereg Arn,' Angrein had told him twelve months back, cradling Hubris in his bulky, calloused hands with a strange fondness 'to illuminate this realm's perilous paths in his future journeys.'

And for a fleeting instance the abrupt flash that erupted out of the Rokae's naked blade transformed the dimness of this winter night into a brilliant white hue.